ONE WEE LITTLE GUARDIAN
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: Wee!chester oneshot. All of Bobby's babysitting skills are put to the test one winter's night when the Winchester boys are left in his care. Schmoop warning.


I apologize to those of you awaiting new updates to my multi-chapter stories. This idea popped into my head and just refused to go away until it was written. If you take a few moments to read, I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: All standard disclaimers apply. Not making a penny, just having a bit of fun.

* * *

**One Wee Little Guardian**

**By: Vanessa Sgroi**

"Good Lord, Winchester, it's ten below if it's a degree out there. Get in here!" Bobby Singer stood aside to allow the younger man and his two young ones entrance to his home. He grimaced as a gust of frigid air slammed into his face. Once the trio was inside, Singer slammed the heavy door and bolted it against the harsh South Dakota winter. He turned and watched John with a critical eye as he eased his youngest and two duffel bags to the ground then brushed snow off both children.

"What the hell are you doing here at two o'clock in the morning in the middle of a snowstorm?"

John stood from his squat. "I got a lead on the thing that killed Mary."

"And it's important enough to drag your two little ones out in this?" Bobby's voice was more than a bit incredulous.

"Yes."

"Always knew you were an ass—idgit—of the highest order."

John threw him a dirty look but refrained from replying.

"How long this time?"

"A few days at most."

"Uh huh." It wasn't that Bobby didn't want the young boys around. In fact, he rather liked having the youngsters underfoot. But he hated John's penchant to walk away from them so easily once he sussed out a hunt, or worse, a clue about whatever it was that had killed his wife.

"I've gotta go. I'll call."

"Uh huh."

Winchester looked down at his kids, resting a hand on each of their shoulders. "You guys be good for Bobby."

John saw himself out as Bobby turned to his two young charges. Three-year-old Sammy stood clutching his favorite teddy bear, Goober, curls springing every which way and eyes at half mast, leaning into his older brother, Dean. He wore a too-big winter jacket over red footy pajamas. Dean, on the other hand, wore a jacket that was a shade too small over a pair of threadbare sweatpants, his feet stuffed in unlaced boots without socks. His hair was a multitude of messy spikes and his eyes were only slightly more alert than his kid brother's. It was clear these boys had been yanked unceremoniously from sleep.

Bobby crouched in front of them and smiled. "Well now, look at you two sleepyheads. Why don't we get those coats off and get you tucked into bed?" He quickly helped them divest of their outerwear. "Want me to carry ya both upstairs?" Sammy immediately nodded, but Dean, two weeks' past his eighth birthday, took affront, straightened his narrow shoulders and shook his head. "I can walk."

"Okey dokey then," Bobby stood and gathered the curly-haired toddler into his arms. The youngest Winchester buried his head underneath Bobby's chin and his thumb found its way into his mouth. "I'll carry Sam and you can walk next to me, how 'bout that?" He headed for the stairs, his lips curling into a slight smile when he felt Dean's small hand slide into his own and hang on tight.

Settling the two children into the twin beds he'd set up several months ago in one of his spare bedrooms didn't take long. He tucked Sam in first, turned to find Dean had already crawled beneath his own blankets and had them bundled tight beneath his chin.

The grizzled hunter watched as the little ones settled in before moving toward the door. He rested a hand on the light switch. "G'night, boys."

"'night, Uncle Bobby," murmured Dean. Sammy's garbled reply mingled with his brother's.

Bobby switched off the light, and headed down the hall, his own bed beckoning with the irresistible lure of a few more hours of sleep. Pausing inside the door, he stood at the window in his room for a minute or two watching the large, lacy snowflakes drift to the ground, illuminated by one of his security lights. A stray draft wormed its way through a fissure in the insulation and stirred his beard. Bobby shivered, made a mental note to fix the problem as soon as he could, and slipped beneath the mound of blankets on his bed.

It was some time later that a tiny hand tugging and poking at him woke Bobby mid-snore. Cracking open heavy lids, he blinked Sam into focus.

"Wake up, Uncle Bobby! Sompfin's wrong with Dee!"

"Wha'?" Singer raised a hand and scrubbed it down his face.

"Sompfin's wrong with Dee. H-He's cryin'!"

"Dean's crying?" Alarm bells were ringing. The young lad was usually stoic. Too stoic most times in Bobby's opinion.

Sammy nodded. "Uh huh. H-He's really, really sad." The toddler grabbed Bobby's hand and pulled, urging him to follow.

The hunter complied, rising and hurrying after Sammy.

Inside the boys' room, Bobby flicked on the light and did indeed find Dean curled into a ball with cheeks wet with tears. He kneeled next to the bed. "Dean? What's wrong?"

Dean squeezed his eyes tightly shut, forcing more tears to overspill and trail down his cheeks. He sniffled into the pillow.

"C'mon, son, you can tell Uncle Bobby what's wrong, can't ya?"

Eyelids lifted slowly, revealing luminously wet green eyes. "Don't feel good." His voice was rough and raspy and his expression was infinitely sad. "I-I-I want my daddy."

Bobby eased onto the edge of the bed. "Ahh, son, I know your daddy's not here, but I am." He reached out a hand and rested it on Dean's forehead, wincing at the heat found there. Clearly the boy had a fever. "It'll be okay." He wiped away some of the moisture with his thumbs.

Sammy, who'd been watching closely, piped up. "Is Dee sick? Does he need a…a ther-mommy-eater?"

Bobby bit his lip but couldn't suppress a small chuckle. "A ther-mommy-eater? Yeah, I think I need to get a thermometer for your brother. I'll be right back."

He retrieved the instrument from the medicine cabinet in the small bathroom down the hall and returned to the bedroom, easing down next to Dean once more. "Okay, kiddo, open up."

Waiting for a temperature reading on Dean, Bobby heard Sammy's feet patter hurriedly away down the hall.

The little boy returned moments later. "Here, Uncle Bobby, this's for Dee!" Sammy held up a sodden washcloth, water seeping between his chubby, miniature fingers. "Dee does _this_," he enthusiastically patted the washcloth over his face, droplets flying, "when I sick." Sam held the proffered item out to the hunter like it was rare treasure.

Bobby took the swatch of terrycloth and squeezed out a bit of the excess water, uncaring of the small puddle it made on the floor. He folded the cloth and placed it on Dean's forehead then removed the thermometer when it beeped. _One oh two point nine. Well, crap. Not good._

The pitter-patter of Sammy's pajama-covered feet across the floor caught Bobby's attention again. He turned his head and saw Sammy toting a small glass that had apparently once been full of water. Now only a quarter of an inch remained sloshing in the bottom of the tumbler.

"Dee firsty, right?" Sammy thrust the glass into Bobby's hands.

Bobby set the glass on the floor near his feet. "Tell ya what, munchkin, we'll try in a minute, okay?"

The toddler nodded solemnly and leaned against the grizzled hunter's leg.

"Dean, can you tell me what hurts? Do you have a tummy ache?"

The young boy shook his head. "My throat hurts." He swallowed with difficulty. "Really, really bad." He shivered even as his eyes glazed and cheeks flushed bright with fever.

"Anything else?"

"My head hurts too."

Bobby reached into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out a little flashlight. Thumbing the switch, he coached, "Okay, Dean, open." His impromptu exam revealed a red, raw throat dotted with specks of white. _Damn._

"Let's get another temp, kiddo."

_One oh three point five. _It was on its way up and fast.

"Well, boys, I think we're due for a road trip."

(SN) (SN) (SN)

The drive to the 24-hour emergency care clinic, normally a 15-minute trek, took nearly an hour. By the time Bobby pushed through the doors with both boys in his arms, he was a nervous wreck. He quickly explained the situation to the receptionist then watched as, seconds later, Dean was whisked into an exam room. The grizzled hunter tightened his hold on Sam and started pacing.

Fifteen minutes later, a white-coated doctor appeared in the lobby. "Dean Singer's family?"

"That's me. I'm Dean's uncle. How is he?"

The doctor stepped forward with a smile. "I'm Dr. Letz. Dean's going to be fine. He has an acute case of strep throat. It's a good thing you got your nephew here when you did. He's throat was considerably swollen. He's also developed the telltale rash associated with scarlet fever."

Bobby threw the doctor an alarmed look.

"No need to worry. It's treated with antibiotics, which we've already started along with an analgesic to bring down his fever. He should be feeling better soon, and you can expect a quick recovery." Dr. Letz reached out and ran her fingers through Sammy's curls. "You'll want to keep an eye on this little guy for a few days though."

The hunter breathed a sigh of relief. "Fair enough. Can we see Dean now?"

"Of course. This way. I'd like to keep him for a few hours for observation."

Bobby nodded in agreement as they crossed the threshold into a small room where Dean laid on a cot. He pulled up a chair and sank into it.

Sammy squirmed until Bobby let him down and he ran to his brother, effortlessly climbing onto the cot.

"Dee!" The three-year-old threw his arms around Dean's neck in a hug.

Dean blinked at Sammy before turning wide, worried eyes to Bobby. "Uncle Bobby, are you leaving me here?" The words sounded painful.

Bobby leaned forward and reassuringly covered Dean's hand with his own. "Nope, we sure aren't, kiddo. We're stayin' right here."

Sam's gaze darted between Uncle Bobby and Dean then doing his darnedest to mimic Bobby's gravelly tone, Sammy repeated, "Nope, we sure aren't, Dee. We're stayin' right here." Having made the solemn pronouncement, Sammy shoved his teddy bear at his older brother. "Here, Goober wants a hug!"

_**Fin**_


End file.
